My name is zuzula and I am an aggressive driver. I admit it. Put me behind a steering wheel and out comes my inner Italian cab driver. I swoop in and out of lanes, swear and beep at slow motorists and I have been know to cut the change from amber to red a bit fine at quiet traffic lights when I'm in a hurry.
I'm not saying it's right. But for me, my car is something that will get me from A to B in the most efficient way possible and I don't like things that get in the way of that. I think this is what comes of learning to drive in London. We're all the same.
Nobody will let you out unless you push your way in, in this congested race track we call the capital - and before long you realize that's just the way the cookie crumbles and get on with it.
Something has happened to me this weekend though. I've had a blissful couple of days lazing around on a south coast beach with my beloved and the journey home was quite possibly the calmest I have ever had. I didn't complain once about the nose-to-tail traffic on the London-bound motorway. I practically stopped the car in order to let someone join the M3 from a sliproad.
A lost couple at the garage asked me for directions towards the city and I let them follow me for miles, until they knew were they were. I even pulled over to wait for them when they were a bit slow crossing a roundabout.
I wasn't in the mood for my favourite game of undercutting those who insist on blocking the middle lanes without getting anywhere near the speed limit. when a child leaning out of a passing car window gave me a grin, I smiled back. I actually found myself waving at her.
What the fuck is happening to me? Must rediscover my inner hardbitch before scary as hell job interview on Thursday. I can't even believe I've got this far but they'll chew me up and spit me out if they spot a chink in the armour. Gulp.